


Not So Very, Very Far Away

by CopperBeech



Series: Absent Without Leave [8]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Author Has Wandered Way Off The Rez, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Beatrice Lillie - Freeform, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Disgustingly twee, Domestic Fluff, Fae & Fairies, Fairyland, Gen, I write what the Thing In My Head tells me, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Kidfic, Protective Crowley, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), They Just Show It By Bickering, missing child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:22:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29358672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperBeech/pseuds/CopperBeech
Summary: The first six parts ofAbsent Without Leaverecounted Prince Beelzebub's post-Nopocalypse fascination with mortals and her gradual choice between power and love. The seventh,Joy Is My Name, found both Heaven and Hell seeking a claim on her child with a mortal. Joy is four now. It's the age when they get into trouble.“Turned the bloody place upside down, Angel. That boxwood’s never going to forgive me.”Aziraphale refrained from remarking that Crowley should be used to that. They’d been looking for nearly an hour, and were no closer to finding Joy – daughter of Beelzebub, once Lord of Hell, Crowley’s old boss, and now the mortal wife of a literary human – than the length of red ribbon, and one trainer lace, trodden in the marigolds.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Original Human Character, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Original Human Character
Series: Absent Without Leave [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1482248
Comments: 19
Kudos: 20





	Not So Very, Very Far Away

_I must go seek some dewdrops here,  
_ _And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear._

– _Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act II, Scene 1_

“I just turned my back for a minute, angel. _Half_ a minute. She was playing in the topsoil mix with that little shovel and bucket, you know, brought'm back from last time. Look, they’re still here.”

They were – the shovel a flimsy red plastic that was already cracking, the bucket made of sturdier tin with a wire handle, painted in stripes of yellow, scarlet and turquoise. It lay abandoned on its side amid a scattering of black humus.

“The gate’s shut. I’ve been up and down the stream banks, you’d see prints. I can’t _smell_ her anywhere.” In the end Crowley would always fall back on his serpent sense of smell. “Been teachin' her the names of all the flowers, and she was saying 'em over while I tied up the Madame Carriere.” The climbing rose Crowley had chosen for his tallest garden lattice was a double whose ample white blooms deepened to pale pink at the heart of the blossom. _Anniversary present, angel, looks just like you._ “Kind’ve _singing_ ‘em really, you know how kids do. ‘N then – you know how you don’t notice right away that something’s stopped – wasn’t hearin’ her, and I turned around and it was just – the bucket. ‘N this.”

The narrow red ribbon that Joy always wore had been in the vinca border. At first he’d been afraid it was blood, but when he came closer – the light always dazzled him a little – he’d been able to see the intact strip of satin picot that moments before had been snug around coarse black hair, tied back off a small forehead.

“Well, she can’t have gone far.”

“You don’t know how fast the little buggers are. Turned my back on Warlock once, _he_ got all the way to the kitchen and pulled down a sack of onions on his head.”

“Well, she didn’t go there. I’ve been baking, I thought she’d like that.”

“Can she get up the stairs on her own?”

“She crawls a bit, but she manages. Only I’ve already looked. Hiding in the shrubbery? I believe children at that age consider it clever. She’s just turned, what, four?”

It had seemed like a perfectly sensible idea. Joy's parents hadn’t gotten away on their own since she was born. Aziraphale had mentioned an AirBnB cottage nearby, but Bella was devoted to Brighton; if it was commonplace, and cheerful, and swarming with humanity, the former Lord of Hell couldn’t get enough of it. And if anything could reconcile a robust, affectionate four-year-old to missing a weekend at the seashore, it was the promise of spending the time with doting uncles who could be depended upon to spoil her rotten. 

“She loves riding in the Bentley." Crowley had told her countless times how she'd almost been born in it.(1) "Why don’t you take it out, and I’ll search the house?”

“Oh bloody perfect, me cruising along the lane, sayin' _get in the car, little girl_. Think they’d grant bail, angel?”

“Dear me, we’ll worry about that when we come to it. I’ll vouch for your credentials as a nanny. Off you go now.“

* * *

“Pretty little one.”

“Hair so happy to be free.”

“Feel the wind. Bathe in the moon’s light.”

“The garden was sunny," said Joy.

“It is always twilight here.”

“Are you Uncle Anty’s friends?”

Her tiny trainers – red, one missing its black lace, the other's lace undone and trailing – were muddy from fording the shallow rivulet at the boundary of Crowley’s garden, and there were flower petals in her hair from pushing her way through the plantings, but her eyes shone as she followed the flickering light of the small winged creatures above her head.

“He doesn’t know us,” said Iris.

“We only come to his garden,” explained Daisy.

“You called us by our names. You _sang_ our names." Joy had a tuneless, artless voice, but there was a melody in her recitation: _Pansy, Lily, Poppy._

“We show ourselves when a child sings our names. It is many years since mortals have sung to us.”

“Praised us.”

“Shall we keep her, sisters? So long since we had a mortal child.”

“You can dance with us under the moon. Drink the dew at dawn.”

“Never grow old.”

“And yet be old as time.”

“Mum calls Uncle Anty _old serpent_ ,” said Joy.

“Ha, are your Mum and Uncle Anty special friends?”

“ _Uncle Zerfel’s_ his special friend.”

“Ah, the fat white one.”

“Come feast with us under our bower. We have preserves made from my cowslips.”

“Berries from my elder bush.”

“Dandelion wine.”

“And when you eat, then you’ll stay. Be our friend forever.”

“Never to leave Faerie.”

“Never to die.”

* * *

“Turned the bloody place upside down, Angel. That boxwood’s never going to forgive me.”

Aziraphale refrained from remarking that Crowley should be used to that. They’d been looking for nearly an hour, and were no closer to finding Joy – daughter of Beelzebub, once Lord of Hell, Crowley’s old boss, and now the mortal wife of a literary human – than the length of red ribbon, and one trainer lace, trodden in the marigolds.

“Chaz said she never keeps her shoes on.”

“Warlock had that stage.”

“You know we’re probably just panicking. She’ll be napping somewhere we haven’t thought of.”

“Right, ‘cos we’ve got such a good record keepin’ track of children.“

“Ought we to call the constabulary then? They have this Child Rescue Alert thingummy.”

“What'f they think _we_ did something with ‘er?”

“Oh, dear, it would take some explaining.”

“I could run up to the village. Ask if they’ve seen the two’ve you. Post Office, cafe, where else would you go with her? That way no one’ll get frantic straight off.”

“Oh, so if she turns up there they’ll think _I_ lost her.”

“Well, they all think you’re the dotty absent-minded one –”

“As if _I’m_ the harebrain who always forgets watercress at the greengrocer’s.”

“Not used to eatin’, angel, and they’ll be wastin’ time givin’ me the third degree if I say I lost her – postmistress’s already convinced I’m with the Mob – “

“Well, if you _insist_ on mooching about dressed all in black and looking _wicked_ \-- _”_

“ _You_ like it.”

“Anyway, you _did_ lose her, you menace.”

“You could’ve come out, you know, you didn’t _have_ to be in the kitchen – you spoil her with food – “

“I always burn – “

“I got you a _hat.”_

“In which I look entirely ridiculous.”

“Angel, you’re _always_ ridiculous.”

“I believe we’re getting away from the point. _A child has been lost.”_

“I’m checkin’ the stream one more time – heard you can drown in an inch of water, doesn’t take the bloody Flood – “

“Crowley, don’t even _say_ things like that – “

“Which reminds me, Heaven en’t got a good record, comes to kids – “

“Oh, Crowley, you don’t think – if she wandered outside the wards ?“

“Gabriel? Yeah. Never stop thinkin’.”

Aziraphale’s mouth set in a grim line.

“There will be Hell to pay for this,” he said.

“Might want to rephrase that.”

* * *

“Now you have sung our songs and dined on our food. You are of Faerie for ever and ever.”

“To dance with us.”

“Tread rings in the turf.”

“Be our Queen.”

“Adorned with pearls.”

“Decked with blossoms.”

“I want to go back now,” said Joy.

“You cannot, child. You drank our wine. You belong to us.”

“You ate our fruits. The way is closed.”

 _“I belong to Mum and Papa,_ ” said Joy. “And Uncle Zerfel was baking biscuits.”

The trainer without laces came entirely off her foot as she squelched down the bank of the little rivulet, leaving a small, muddy white sock. Beyond was only the Land of Summer’s Twilight – no garden, no cottage, nothing but the turf rolling away beneath a sunset glow that mingled with the pale rays of a rising moon.

“You cannot depart,” said Iris.

Joy stepped in. The water washed up over her ankles, no further, and a breeze blew back the coarse hair, a faint ray of stronger sun flushed her skin. She turned on a flat boulder that bridged the middle of the stream.

“I’ll come back when I visit,” she said. “I’ll sing to you.”

She was barely up on the opposite bank, in the marsh marigolds, when she felt herself snatched up and swung through the air, in the heavy heat of a late Sussex afternoon.

_"Uncle Anty!!!!”_

* * *

“She is not like the other mortal children.”

“She called us.”

“But did not stay.”

“She can cross at will.”

“This thing has not been seen.”

“We have something of hers. She will return.”

“She took something as well.”

“I want to dance,” said Iris.

* * *

“There are fairies at the bottom of the garden,” explained Joy gravely.

“Are there now? Have they got your other trainer then?”

“I looked,” said Crowley. “All the way down to that stand of poplars. It’ll turn up.”

“Well, Mum will be very put out with your careless old uncles, won’t she?”

“Don’t make me think about it,” said Crowley.

“There, now your hair’s tied back again nice and tidy. What about some biscuits?”

“Spoilin’ her, angel. Not like she just gave us the fright’ve our lives or anythin’.”

“Dear, I’d say we’ve already had the fright of our _lives,_ haven’t we?”

“You’ve seen what her _Mum_ ’s like.”

“Come along now. Look how you’ve upset Uncle Anthony. You mustn’t be wicked and hide – ”

“I _told_ you, there were _fairies – ”_

“ – now give him a hug, he was frantic.”

“Ah, knew she’d turn up.”

“Pull the other one, dear. When she’s done with yours,” the angel added, because Joy had attached herself to Crowley’s muddy jeans-clad leg like a climbing vine.

“Oh, you wait,” mouthed Crowley.

* * *

“You’re both looking splendid. The time away did you good.”

“Hope she didn’t make you barmy. She’s gettin’ to be a handful, see her Mum in her.”

“Oh, keeps us on our toes, this one. I’m afraid she did lose a shoe.”

“Eh, due for a new pair anyway. Growin’ like a weed. What’s this, little fiend?” Chaz leaned down to take a small muddy pebble from his daughter’s hand; the grime thumbed off, it was a lustrous baroque pearl, silvery and without a setting.

“Where’d you get this?”

“From the fairies."

"You don't say?"

"Uncle Anty has fairies in his garden.”

“I’m sure he does, Jips. Here, brought you some rock.” Chaz reached into his pocket. “Books say they get imaginary friends at this age. That isn't from one of your magic tricks? Looks valuable.”

“She likes poking around in the stream,” said Aziraphale. “You never know what’s going to show up in there.”

* * *

It was close to dawn when the kitchen door opened and Aziraphale slipped out into the garden in his tartan dressing-gown and slippers, carrying a small dish and shedding a faint Celestial light.

“I know you’re there,” he said.

There was a rustle in the foliage, but no answer.

“I’m leaving this on the path. Biscuits from today’s baking, and fresh cream. And a bit of the rock Chaz brought, though it’s nicer to look at than to eat.”

He knelt and set the dish on a stepping-stone. As he rose there was a rustle in the Madame Carriere, and a small glow infused one of the blooms. He lifted it away from the trellis between two manicured fingertips, holding entirely still as a minuscule creature stepped into his palm, wings shimmering like a hummingbird’s.

“It stood to reason,” he said. “I’ve not spent centuries curating the occult lore of the world without learning something about the Good Folk. You eat the dainties the householder leaves. You cannot bear knots or binding in your realm. You come when a child calls. Your wings are beautiful,” he added as the creature in his hand gave a dragonfly whirr. Fairies like to be flattered.

“She is not like the other mortals. Nor are you.”

It was a cold, chiming voice, beautiful but unearthly. The eyes in the tiny face were slitted like Crowley’s, but slanted, their outer corners extending almost up into the feathery hairline.

“Indeed. I was hoping we might speak plainly. Your kind are known for your wisdom. But also for your habit of twisting words.”

“Beware, lest I take offence.”

“I believe you would find me difficult to reprimand.”

The small shape fluttered, descended again. “I know you now. Speak, renegade angel. Oh yes, we have heard of you. You come in a strange form for an angel. A soft, fat little man.”

“I am no man,” smiled Aziraphale, rippling into the shape of a buxom, blond woman whose hair cascaded over the shoulders of a gauzy gown. The phantoms of wings shimmered behind her, a faint pattern of eyes coming and going in the ghostly plumes, like a peacock’s.

“Ah, now you are fit for our court,” said the dainty creature. “Come and dance?”

“Crowley will miss me if he wakes. I only need to ask something of you.”

“Name your request.” The slanted eyes were sly under brows feathered like a moth’s antennas.

“The child is under our protection. If she wishes to visit you, she may. But you must not come for her without permission.”

“And whose permission will that be?”

“Her parents’. I’ll speak to them. They’re not – ordinary. I suspect there’s a reason why Crowley and I were sent to the Garden and not some other angel and demon. A reason why he chose a cottage near one of the Silver Gates. So when I speak, shall I tell them what you’ve pledged?”

“Which shall be?”

“To let her come and go as she chooses. To use no glamour or trickery to influence her choice. To guard her from any who would harm her, even from your own.”

“And if we do not agree?”

“I am the Principality set to defend this mortal world. Guarding gates is what I do. I can't be certain that I could close the one between our realms, but need we try the experiment? I think I could do quite a lot with a bit of cold iron.”

“You would dare?”

“I’ve been daring a good many things in the last few years. It gets easier as it goes along, I have to tell you.”

“You drive a hard bargain, _angel.”_

“I learned from the best.”

"Your mate will honour this?"

"I'll choose my moment to explain to Crowley. He can get quite fiercely protective."

“I will tell the Court. I must be gone, dawn is breaking.”

* * *

“Whassat?”

Crowley had pulled the pillows entirely over his head, so that only long familiarity allowed the angel to interpret the sounds coming from beneath them.

“What’s what, dear?”

“You were whistlin’.”

“Oh – yes. I wasn’t even thinking.”

“Can’t place it.”

“Oh, you remember Mrs. Lillie, don’t you? All those clever, naughty little vaudeville songs.”

“Only _you_ would think they were naughty, angel.”

“Dear, _one_ of us should have some standards –– _ooooof!”_

“Show _you_ naughty.”

“Well – it has been a long week-end. _Pas devant les enfants,_ and all that.”

“Shut up,” said Crowley, and shut him up.

_There are fairies at the bottom of our garden!  
_ _You cannot think how beautiful they are;  
_ _They all stand up and sing when the Fairy Queen and King  
_ _Come gently floating down upon their car._

 _The King is very proud and very handsome;  
_ _The Queen- now you can guess who that could be?_  
_She's a little girl all day, but at night she steals away –  
_ _Well - it's Me!_

_\------------------_

(1) _Joy Is My Name_ , Chapter 4

**Author's Note:**

> Beatrice Lillie (1894-1989) performed from the heyday of British music-hall song to the era of television variety shows. Aziraphale would have found her performances, filled with gentle double-entendre, quite daring. Here she is on the air, circa 1957, with [There Are Fairies At The Bottom Of The Garden](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wVo3dphCtJE) (0:55 to 3:25):
> 
> There's a story about something that happened when Joy was still in her crib, but no spoilers here, so that'll go up when it's finished.
> 
> Come sing to me on Tumblr @CopperPlateBeech!


End file.
